El Nino is upon us.

This week, my town turned into Atlantis 2.0. Rain fell at the rate of about 3 cats, 2 dogs per hour. We endured the kind of rainfall that makes cars pull off to the side of the highway. It was the kind of rain that plops down big, bloated drops and somehow manages to soak your underwear before your pants are fully drenched — the kind of rain that makes you look into the distance and say, "Hey, didn't there used to be mountains over there?" And then you assume the mountains have been carried away in the rain, because that's how gnarly this rain is.

The brave of the brave strapped plunger suction cups to the bottom of their feet, made a rope from Christmas lights and duct tape, and swung onto their ever-leaking roofs to tarp chimneys and weak spots. The ultra-prepared held pre-emptive candlelight vigils for what would surely turn into the death of citywide electricity. The "Dead Poets Society" followers broke out their surfboards, rafts and swimmer wings and carpe-diemed down the river formerly known as Maple Street. And I, well, hunkered down on the couch, curled up under some blankets and watched "Thelma & Louise," thinking it'd be a lot more fun to be in their sun-bleached fugitive sneakers than in my rain boots. I mean, sure, the ending is a bit of a downer, but at least they got to see the Grand Canyon.

I used to enjoy the rain. I wasn't exactly Gene Kelly about it, but that may have more to do with my lack of singing ability and dancing ability. When I was young, if the weather was warm, my mom would send us kids outside to get drenched in the downpour. Sometimes we'd run outside in the clothes we were wearing. Sometimes we'd put on our bathing suits and bring shampoo. Sometimes we'd put on our sleeping clothes and jump in the mud puddles. And once, just once, we put on our Sunday best and rolled around in every mud mound we could find. It was hilarious — until we got caught.

The last El Nino I remember was when I was about 16 years old. The change in temperature and air pressure and other things I can only pretend to understand had made for a pretty dry winter and spring. That summer, I enrolled in a college program at Syracuse University and spent the next two months living in the dormitories and attending classes. I only recall it raining a few times that summer, but El Nino had been in the news as much then as it is now. I specifically remember one classmate introducing himself as El Nino the Man. "Do you know why they call me that, girl? 'Cause I'm a storm, baby. And I'm coming for ya." And I thought to myself, "Wow! Now this is an adult conversation. I'm, like, so mature right now." No, really. I actually thought that. In addition to the sparsely mustachioed Don Juan known as El Nino the Man, boys in my dorm would yell out "El Nino" at passing girls and say something about feeling wet. I thought they were saying that we were so hot we made them perspire. Oh, sweet innocence. It was a dry summer, as well.

With all these warm memories of rain and El Nino, why do I have such condemnation for them both now? Have I just grown curmudgeonly in my old age? Too set in my understanding of expected and acceptable adult behavior? On one hand, I can appreciate my lack of excitement for getting drenched now that I am in charge of doing my own laundry. But on the other hand, showering in the rain has to save on water bills, right? Perhaps it's time to venture into the wide, wet world. Because if I'm being totally honest, the entire time I was holed up under my blanket on the couch, I kept one eye on the sinking backyard, thinking, "Man, that would make an awesome place to do a belly slide!"

If my town is going to be underwater, maybe it's time I embraced the swim. As my friends at truflmap.com once said, "Welcome, El Nino. The world is my mud bath, and I'm ready to spa."

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Photo credit: Jeremy Segrott